


you're deriving me crazy

by amillionsmiles



Series: ball's in your court [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Long-Distance Relationship, YOU ARE WONDERFUL AND LOVED, this is my love letter to everyone going through senior year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: Pidge takes multivariable calculus, deals with missing her boyfriend, and learns to drive.





	you're deriving me crazy

**Author's Note:**

> is it really my otp if I don't write a long-distance relationship AU for them at some point
> 
> anywhooo, this is a sequel to [head in the game](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11805480) so if you haven't read that yet, hop on over and check it out first! :) 
> 
> if you _have_ read the aforementioned prequel, then jump right in!! warning: tooth-rotting fluff ahead. there are tearful motivational speeches, Holt family feelings, and copious amounts of cuddling.
> 
> ALSO: I don't know that it really matters to anyone, but just a word on naming in this fic in case you get confused: Pidge is a nickname, obviously, used by her close friends and family. Her dad alternates between Katie and Pidge, her mom usually calls her Katie, Matt alternates (if he's not just straight up calling her something like "scrub"). Everyone else will refer to her as Katie or Katherine.
> 
> OK I THINK THAT'S EVERYTHING NOW GO READ~~~

In the middle of math class, Pidge’s phone buzzes.

Covertly, she hides it under the table.  It’s more out of courtesy than any real fear that she’ll be caught—Dr. Slav has halted his lecture on multivariable calculus in order to explain his theories about multiple _universes_ , gesticulating wildly as he frantically writes down equations on the board.  Most of the class’s eyes have glazed over, which is why Pidge doesn’t feel particularly guilty as she swipes to her messages.

 

**Lancey Lance**

\---- Wed, Aug 23, 2:35 PM ----

 

OK, zombie apocalypse

Costco or Target??

 

Typical.  Pidge rolls her eyes, firing off a response.

 

Costco

Also I’m in the middle of class

Ur disrupting my education

 

You could have ignored and responded later!!

 

Pfft

Because I’M the responsible one in this relationship

 

Well it sure isn’t me :P

[IMAGE SENT]

[IMAGE SENT]

Which one do you like better??

 

You’re buying a longboard?

Do you even know how to board?

 

No

But there’s something called LEARNIFG

*LEARNING

 

2nd one’s zigzags are cooler

Also ur a nerd

 

Excuse you

I’ll have you know I’m a cool kid on campus

 

Yeah right

In one of the alternate universes Dr. Slav is so obsessed with, maybe

 

God why would you take another class with Slav

Wasn’t stats enough??

My gf is a glutton for punishment

 

Hence why I’m dating you

 

:(

FaceTime tonight?

 

Yeah, 9 PM your time

 

It’s a date ;)

  

*

 

“All right, now straighten out the wheel,” Pidge’s dad instructs.

Thankfully, the church parking lot is mostly deserted early Saturday morning, leaving fewer people around to witness her poor attempts at parallel parking.  She does as her dad says, slowly backing up and watching the curb draw ever closer in her right-side mirror.  

“Okay, now turn.”

Pidge turns—the wrong way.  Cursing internally, she corrects her mistake, the car straightening out into the parking space.  Almost done. Renewed by a burst of confidence, she does the rest on her own: get a little closer to the curb, scoot backward—

—a dull thud sounds from behind, startling her into slamming her foot down on the brake.  Her dad gets out of the car to check on the damage. Meanwhile, Pidge slumps forward. She’s not even going to get out of the test center at this rate, she’ll just fail the parallel parking right off the bat and spend the rest of her life bumming rides off of others—

Dad raps on the driver’s side window. Glumly, Pidge rolls it down.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, kiddo, your brother knocked over the cone at _least_ ten times before he got it right even once. You’re only on count number four!  Let’s go again.”

Behind the cheer, Pidge knows her dad is trying to instill upon her some deep lesson about the value of perseverance.  Many a family dinner has been spent talking about the failed experiments in his lab, the late nights spent combing through data or running tests again and again. She has clear memories of eighth grade science fair, when he’d sat her down for “The Talk”—the talk being: “Sometimes, we learn more from being proved wrong than from confirming we were right.”  So yeah, if you asked her to summarize the Holt family motto, she’d answer something about humility, hard work, and never giving up.

Currently, though, Pidge is operating on five hours of sleep and a healthy helping of frustration.  In situations like these, a little sibling rivalry goes a long way.

“All right,” she says, shifting out of park and hitting her blinker.  Time to loop the parking lot again. 

All she has to do is beat Matt.

 

*

 

“Foul!”

On the court, ten pairs of shoes squeak to a stop.  The team reorganizes itself for the free throw, Rax and Rocky peeling away to set up the defense.  Pidge is manning the clock for their scrimmage in practice today, ready to adjust the scoreboard.

Beside her, Akira tugs on her sleeve.  “Who fouled?” he asks.

“Aj,” she answers. “Number 13.”

Akira nods, sweeping some of the black hair out of his eyes as his pencil skims down the column of the scorebook, locating Aj’s name.  He puts a slash through one of Aj’s fouls, turning back to Pidge and giving her a thumbs-up. 

“Thanks.”

Pidge smiles. “No problem.”

She remembers being in this position two years ago, under Allura’s tutelage.  It’s strange to be on the other side of it, training someone else to take her place as manager.  So many things she’d gotten down to a science: always bringing an extra battery pack for the camera, memorizing each team member’s favorite Gatorade flavor, curating a perfectly timed warm-up playlist.  Knowledge she has to package and pass on, now.

Not that she doesn’t believe the team will be in good hands.  Akira is bright-eyed and enthusiastic, with a head for numbers and an eagerness to please.  Traits that’ll serve him well, once he gets out of his sophomore shyness and learns to keep the older boys in line.

On the table, her phone lights up with a snap from Lance.  It’s another one of his dorky gym selfies; Pidge half-considers screenshotting it, before deciding that it’ll boost his ego too much.

“No cell phone use during the game!” Rax puffs as he runs past the referee table, but it’s a good-natured jibe.

“It’s Lance,” Pidge justifies, which wouldn’t fly during a real game, but here in practice it’s a valid excuse.  The entire team adores him.  Even those who didn’t play alongside him last year like him, based solely on principle.

She raises her phone to capture a recording, and everybody on the court halts their motions for a minute, turning around to wave.  Then Rocky barks, “Okay, guys, focus,” Eric throwing up a shot while Pidge sends her snap to Lance.

She gets a text message from him shortly after:

 

**Lancey Lance**

\---- Mon, Oct 23, 4:40 PM ----

 

Aww tell the guys I miss them :’)

Also is that my jersey I see??

 

Yep

There’s a new number 30 now

Jared Lopez

 

Sweet, I think I remember seeing him play JV once

Post??

 

Yeah

Not as muscly as Hunk, but he’s got really long arms

 

You know what they say about long arms…

;)

 

I’m breaking up with you

 

Aw Pidge c’mon

\---- Mon, Oct 23, 5:00 PM ----

 

PIDGE!!!

 

*

 

December 15th finds the Holt family gathered around the dining room table.  Pidge has her laptop open, both her parents hunched over her shoulders; on the table, Matt whines, “Push me closer, I can’t see,” and their mom adjusts the iPad, angling it so he has a better view of Pidge and her computer screen.

The MyMIT portal comes up easily, its bright green masthead across the top.  Slowly, Pidge types in her login information; she doesn’t want to mess up her password today. 

“Where is it?” her mom asks, pressing closer as the screen refreshes.

“Relax, Mom,” says Matt.

“Well, this is it.” Pidge’s cursor hovers over the link.  “I’m clicking.”

“Wait.” Dad places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing.  “I know we had this talk already, but whatever that letter you open says, Katie, remember: we are so, so proud of you. No matter what.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Pidge smiles, and she thinks that this is the moment that she’ll look back on, more than anything else: the overwhelming love and support pouring from the three people closest to her, regardless of what lies ahead.

She takes a deep breath and clicks the link.

 

_Dear Katherine,_

_On behalf of the Admissions Committee, it is my pleasure to offer you admission—_

 

Her mom shrieks, hands flying to cover her mouth.  Matt whoops, pumping a fist in the air—that gets his roommate Drew’s attention, who wheels into view to ask: “What’s going on?”

“Little sis just got into MIT,” brags Matt.

“Our Beavers are better!” Drew taunts, but he winks and gives her a thumbs-up. 

Dad is silent.  Pidge looks over to see that he’s taken off his glasses, wiping them on his shirt; when he puts them back on, he blinks at her through watery eyes.

“It’s really happening, kiddo,” he says.  “You’re growing up.” 

 _“Dad,”_ she says, trying to keep the tremble from her own voice.

Her mom, meanwhile, has already begun to fret about logistics.  “You and Matt will be on opposite ends of the country.  We’ll have to coordinate calling times—”

“Honey, slow down,” laughs her father, reaching over to hug his wife, and Pidge and Matt exchange looks through the screen: _parents. What can you do?_

“Have fun freezing your ass off in Cambridge,” her brother says.

“Caltech who?” Pidge says in return, sticking out her tongue, and despite the winter wind outside, her entire chest feels warm.

 

*

 

_Katie Holt – Multivariable Calc Notes_

**saddle point:** a point on the surface of a graph of a function where moving away from it along one axis generates an increase (hence, the point forms a minimum), and moving away from it along the _crossing axis_ causes a decrease (point also forms a maximum)

            -basically, imagine the center of a Pringle

            -things go up, but they can also go down

 

*

 

“Ready for your driver’s test tomorrow?”  The bag of jalapeño chips crinkles over the speakers as Lance sticks his hand in it, waiting for an answer.

Pidge sighs, resting her chin on her hands.  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”  A sneaking sense of doubt creeps up on her.  “What if I fail?”

“You won’t fail. And even if you do, it’s not like that test reflects anything about your character or smartness.”

“Yeah, just my hand-eye coordination and readiness for adulthood.”

“It’ll be okay, Pidge.” Lance smiles at her through the screen.  She has an urge to do something corny like press her fingers against where she can see his cheek, but that would just make her laptop smudgy, so her hands stay to herself.  “Worse comes to worse, you just take it again.”

“Speaking of tests,” Pidge says sternly, “you have a chemistry one on Monday.”

“Yes, Pidge, I’m well aware. I’m like, living and breathing functional groups right now. Talk dirty to me. Mmm, yeah, salicylic acid.”

“Dork.”

“Hey, enjoy my jokes while I still have a sense of humor, because I’m pretty sure pre-med life is eventually going to turn me into a zombie fueled solely by masochism and caffeine.”

“Just as long as you don’t start losing hair. That’s where I’m drawing the line.”

Lance brings a hand to his forehead, running his fingers through his front locks.  “Like I would _ever_ let that happen. Hey, did you get the hoodie I sent you?”

Pidge glances at her closet.  “Yeah, why?”

“Does it fit okay?”

“I can put it on right now,” she offers, then immediately reddens.

Lance looks a little surprised, too, but quickly recovers, his throat bobbing as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be cool.”

Crossing to her closet, Pidge pulls the hoodie down from the hanger.  She shouldn’t feel this nervous—she’s putting another layer _on,_ not taking her clothes _off,_ for crying out loud, but there’s still something intimate about it.  The material is soft as she pulls it over her head.  She pats down her hair as she walks back to her desk, presenting the giant white NC emblazoned across her chest.

“It’s a little big,” she says, pushing the sleeves up on her arms and shoving her hands in the giant stomach pouch.  “But it’s cozy.  I like it.”

“I like it on you, too,” Lance says, sending her a sultry look, and if he were physically present she’d definitely shove his chest.

“Good,” Pidge says, mostly because she doesn’t trust herself to say more. Glancing at the time, she adds, “It’s almost 10:30 for you. Weren’t you supposed to be at that party?”

“Yeah, I just got a text from Darren.” Lance waves his phone at her. “Gonna head out now.  But listen, good luck and don’t stress too much about tomorrow.  You’re going to do great.”

“Have fun. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Love you!” He ends the call.

Meanwhile, Pidge’s thoughts have come to a screeching halt.  _Love you._ Not even a fully formed sentence; more of an afterthought, like something said to your mom just before hanging up, but it’s still the first time the word has come up between them.  And it’s not that she thinks it’s too early—they’re entering their tenth month of dating, after all.  But six of those months have been conducted long-distance.  This—this feels like something better said face to face.

It also begs the question: _Does_ she love Lance?  She’s never thought about it in those terms before.  He’s one of her best friends.  The first person she texts whenever she has a funny thought.  If she were stuck on a deserted island and could only bring three other people, she’d pick him (Keith and Hunk would be the other two—Keith, for the weird outdoor survival phase he went through sophomore year, and Hunk, because he can make food out of anything).  Does that—is that _love?_   Does he expect her to say it back next time they talk?  Is it lying if she says it but isn’t 100% sure yet?  _Shouldn’t_ she be sure by now?

Leave it to Lance to say something totally casual and still manage to send her spiraling through an existential crisis on a Friday night.

Pidge pulls the hood of her jacket over her face and screams.

 

*

 

She passes her driving test with only a few errors: one rolling stop, one right hand turn that swung a little wide.  After all the build-up, it’s surprisingly anticlimactic; she gets her picture snapped and walks out into the sunlight, a sheet of paper clutched in her hand.  The official plastic card will come later, in the mail.

Still, that doesn’t stop her mom from taking a picture to send to the family group text (embarrassing), and Lance asks to see it when they video call later that night.

After she shows him, they wind up debating Sharknado and watching an episode of Black Mirror together on Rabbit.  Lance makes no mention of his words from the night before. 

Maybe it makes her a terrible person, but Pidge is relieved.

 

*

 

“Mail,” Pidge announces, the stack of envelopes hitting the counter.  Her mom’s voice drifts from the master bedroom; Pidge follows the sound, intending to poke her head in.

Just before she raises a hand to knock, curiosity overtakes her.  Pressing an ear against the door, she catches the tail-end of a sentence: “—sell the house here and move to Arizona. It’ll be easier with kids in college.”

Pidge takes a step back.  Swallows.  _Arizona._ Conceptually, not a dramatic distance. Just the state next door.  But _moving?_   That can’t be right—

The door swings open, her mom’s startled face filling the frame. 

“Oh!  Katie, you’re home.”

 _It’s just a mistake; you’re jumping to conclusions,_ Pidge thinks.

“We’re moving?” she croaks aloud.

Guilt flashes across her mom’s face.  “Nothing’s…confirmed, yet, but your father got an interview offer—”

“When were you going to tell me? Does Matt know?”

“We probably won’t have anything formalized until the fall, and you and Matt would be leaving for college then, so—”

“That’s not fair, Mom!” Pidge blurts.  Part of her knows it’s petulant, but the rest of her is betrayed that her parents entertained the decision without bringing it up to her even once, as if she’s already left the house, a bird fleeing from the nest.  “I still have a life here!  I have places and—and _people_ I’ll miss, you can’t just—”

She sucks in a breath, trying to steady herself.  Knows that she has too many thoughts to work through, right now, and can’t do it with her mom looking at her like that.

“I’m going for a drive,” she decides, the keys already clenched in her right hand.  The cuts bite into her palm as she turns to head out the garage.

“Katie, wait!”

The rest of it is lost to the sound of a slamming door.

 

*

 

The nice thing about driving is that it still hasn’t become second nature to Pidge, yet.  Hence, monitoring her mirrors, speedometer, and turn signal uses up most of her focus, keeping her mind off of things.  The sunset is starting to give way to dusk, Pidge’s anger subsiding into something a bit more manageable, when the raccoon appears.

She swerves to avoid it, the jerk of the wheel causing her car tires to roll up against the curb.  For a terrifying second, her stomach plummets, but she manages to get back in control.  There’s no traffic behind her or passing by, and the raccoon darts away as if nothing happened.  Shaken, Pidge continues until she finds a gas station to park in, pulling over.

Nothing looks damaged.  The tires remain firm under her hands, no strange liquids leaking from the undercarriage.  A small comfort, but she can still feel the panic bubbling up in her chest and staggers to the curb, bracing her head between her knees and breathing.  _In for five, hold.  Out for three.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5.  Hold.  1, 2, 3._

When the staccato levels out into a steady rhythm, she lifts her head.  The 7-Eleven is mostly empty, save for a black pick-up truck parked in front of the ice station.  The loneliness of it breaks open something inside Pidge—a thought she’s tried to keep down, but one that has only grown with every email reminding her to _send in your deposit by May 1 st!_

The truth is, she isn’t ready to leave home.  She’s spent so long coming into her own only to have to build it all up again, in a place far away from where she’s grown up, and then after that it’s declaring a major and finding a job and buying a house and being an adult and she can’t, she _can’t,_ it’s just too much—

She makes the phone call without thinking.

It’s 6 PM in California, where Matt’s still in lab.  7 PM here in New Mexico, where her dad’s probably on his way home.  9 PM in North Carolina, where Lance picks up after the third ring.

He sounds a little groggy, voice cottony at the edges.  “Pidge?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling guilty almost immediately.  “Were you—were you asleep?”

“Just taking a power nap, it’s fine,” Lance rushes to reassure, and she can hear him picking up on the tension in her voice, growing alert.  “Hey, are you okay?  What’s wrong?”

 _Nothing. Everything._ She swallows past the lump in her throat.

“I almost ran over a raccoon,” she says.

“Close call.  Are you all right?”

“Yeah, just—” She pauses to rub her nose.  “Just a little rattled.  I hit the curb when I swerved to dodge the stupid thing, but my tires seem fine.”

“That’s good.  Where are you now?”

“7-Eleven.”

“The one near your house?”

“Yeah.”

“Slurpee run?” asks Lance, and the thought brings a smile to her face, even as it dredges up an accompanying wave of sadness, because that’s _their_ thing and he’s not _here_ and— _breathe, Pidge.  Breathe._

“No, I just…I needed to clear my head, a little.”

She can tell Lance wants to ask but knows her well enough not to pry.  “Okay,” he says.  “Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you stay on the phone with me?” Pidge asks.  “I’m going to drive back home now but I’d—I’d feel better if you were on the line.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, and his voice is so tender that she wants to make a blanket from it.  “Of course.”

       

*

 

Her parents are waiting at the kitchen room table when she gets home.  The chair screeches back as her dad gets to his feet, an apology etched into every corner of his face.

“We’re so sorry, honey, of course we should have told you sooner,” says her mom, rushing to her side, and the dam finally breaks; Pidge collapses into her parents’ arms, tears spilling over.

“I’m sorry, too,” she blubbers. “I overreacted, and I know it’s a big deal for Dad, I’m just scared because—because what if I go to MIT and I actually hate it, or I’m not good enough, and I want to come home, but home won’t even be _here_ anymore and I don’t know how to deal with all these changes, it feels like I’m supposed to be ready and excited and have it all figured out but some nights I just get so _nervous_ and I haven’t even left yet—”  All her thoughts run into each other, overflowing, and her dad just hugs her tighter, her mom rubbing circles on her back.

“Katie, honey, it’s okay.  It’s okay.  You’re only sixteen, you’re not _supposed_ to have everything figured out yet.”

“It’s normal to feel this way, kiddo,” her dad reassures, squeezing.  “But don’t let the doubt hold you back.  If you get too worried about what could go wrong, you might miss the chance to do something great.  And you _are_ going to do great things.  You’re our little pigeon.”

She half laughs, half sniffles.  “You really think so?” 

“Sweetie, of course,” murmurs her mom, pressing a kiss to her forehead.  “You’re already great.” 

 

*

 

The basketball team dinner at the end of March is a time-honored tradition, one of many that Pidge will miss after she graduates.  Coach Coran calls for their attention, his voice rising above the chatter of the nearby tables at Chili’s.

Things like “Most Valuable Player” and “Most Improved” will be announced at the official athletic banquet at the end of the year.  The basketball dinner, meanwhile, is meant only for their ears, full of inside jokes and shared nights at away games, long hours on the bus spent belting middle school dance throwbacks.  Jared gets “Most Likely to Trip Over His Shoelaces” and Mark gets “Most Likely to Make Friends with the Other Team.”  Rax gets “Most Swole,” and soon it’s Pidge’s turn to officially present the stats book and lucky pencil to Akira.

The whole hand-off is more ceremonial than anything.  Akira has been keeping the book for the last half of the season, but this marks the formal end of Pidge’s career as manager.  As for the lucky pencil, there’s nothing particularly distinguishing about it—solid red, 2B, halfway to becoming a stub.  Allura had even confided that she’d snapped the original (if it even _was_ the original, which, doubtful) in half during her sophomore year; mortified, she’d scrambled to buy a replacement.  The string of back to back losses that resulted that year were blamed, in part, on the bad mojo that breaking the pencil had released.

It’s all tongue-in-cheek superstition, of course.  A badge they agree to wear, a game they agree to play along with—but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s _meant_ something to Pidge, during her time here.  A mantle she bore proudly.  So she can’t help feeling emotional as she hands book and pencil over to Akira, who takes them with his own quiet reverence.

“Take care of these idiots,” she says, not unkindly.

“Hey!” Someone from farther down the table protests.

Akira nods and smiles, dimpling his right cheek.  “I will.”

Rax stands up.  “We have something for you, too,” he says, presenting a brightly-colored gift bag. 

Digging through the tissue paper, Pidge pulls out a small trophy.  Inscribed at its base:

_Katie Holt_

_Most Outstanding Manager (MOM)_

“You guys,” she says, unsure whether to burst into laughter or tears.

“Get this on camera, Pidge is gonna cry,” someone calls, and she flips him off.  This time, Coach Coran lets her get away with it.

 

*

 

**Lancey Lance**

\---- Fri, Apr 6, 3:55 PM ----

 

How’s my little dancing queen

 

Oh my god, stop, it’s been 3 days since my birthday

 

So what??

The song is a classic

YOU ARE THE DANCING QUEEEN

YOUNG AND SWEET

ONLY SEVENTEEEEEN

 

Check snapchat

 

Wow that was a mean snap

Cyberbully

Whatcha up to?

 

Headed to the parking lot

You?

 

Same

 

You’re also in a parking lot?

 

Yep

 

?

 

Waiting for a friend

Taking 4ever though they’re kinda slow

 

RIP

 

Pidge puts her phone away, digging around in her backpack for her keys.  She has to stop to wrestle with the zipper, and when she looks up, she can just make out a figure in the distance.  Someone’s standing by her car.

Pidge slows as she approaches.  _It can’t be._

But there’s only one person she knows who stands like that: hands tucked in his back pockets, head tilted back to admire the clouds.  His new haircut makes his ears stick out weirdly, and she’ll make fun of him for it later; but right now, framed by blue sky and the sunlight glinting off the cars in the parking lot, Lance might just be the most beautiful thing Pidge has ever seen.

At the sound of her approach, he turns, eyes lighting up as he flashes that Colgate commercial grin.  She’s like a pebble launched from a slingshot, barreling straight into his arms.

“Whoa.” Lance steps back slightly to absorb her force, tucking her under his chin.  He still smells like too much Old Spice, just a hint of lemons underneath, and Pidge doesn’t realize she’s trembling until he wraps his arms around her.  Is she—she’s actually tearing up.  Who would have thought.

“Damn, Pidge, I know the haircut’s bad but I didn’t think it’d make you _cry._ ” 

“Shut up,” Pidge mumbles into his chest.  She wants to punch him on the shoulder, but that would require disentangling herself from this hug, which. Not happening. Instead, she snorts. The action leaves a watery burst of snot on Lance’s shirt.

God, she’s a mess.

“I missed you _so much_ , you big dumb giraffe.”  _He’s here. He’s really here._

Lance squeezes her tighter. His nose brushes the top of her head; she can feel his smile against her crown. “I missed you too, shortcake.”

She pulls back—only barely, just enough to tip her head up at him in a frown. “Shortcake?”

Lance looks down the bridge of his nose at her, eyebrows wiggling in some sort of half-comical, half-suggestive dance.  “I had a lot of time on the plane and now I’ve got a whole list of new pet names, sweettart.  Tootsie pop.  Tortellini, honey badger, freckles, peach, pickles, _babe_ —”

“All right, all right, stop, you’re being gross!” Pidge wriggles free of his grip just in time to clamp a hand over his mouth so that she can prevent him from blowing a raspberry against her cheek.  Lance’s special brand of magic: the ability to take her from sniffling to smiling in less than a minute.  “How’d you know where I was parked, anyways?”

“Got the deets from the basketball team.  Once a Lion, always a Lion.”

 _“That’s_ why Rocky was being so suspicious earlier,” Pidge realizes.

“Rocky, my man.” Lance grins and releases her, crossing his arms and leaning against her car.  “So, rumor has it that you can drive this thing, but I kind of want to confirm it for myself.”

“What about your car, though? We’ll have to come back for it.”

“I had my parents drop me off.”

“Oh my god,” Pidge says. “I can’t believe you did that _just_ so you could get a ride from me.”

“What can I say? I’m committed.”  His eyes brighten.  “Wait, I bet you have to slide your seat all the way forward so that your feet touch the pedals, don’t you?  Pidge, please tell me this is true, do you know how long I’ve waited to witness this moment with my own two eyes—” 

“Just get in the car, Lance.” But she’s fighting down a smile as she shoves him away from the driver’s door.  She’d told herself not to worry, but a part of her had still wondered how things would go when Lance returned in person, whether college would bring on some unbridgeable gulf of experience between them.

But then Lance’s voice fills the small space of her car, complaining as he pushes the chair back to make room for his legs, and it’s easy as anything, simple as a seatbelt clicking into place.  

 

*

 

“What the hell, Pidge, get your own stars!” shrieks Lance.

They’re crammed onto her twin bed, battling it out on Super Mario Bros.  Matt’s old DS Lite has been copped for their competition, Pidge’s government homework set aside for a temporary break.  Mercilessly, Pidge finishes drilling Lance’s Mario into the floor, chasing after the star he releases.  The round ends with a shot of Luigi frozen in mid-air, a bright red _victory_ declared in her favor.

Content, Pidge swings her feet out of Lance’s lap, padding over to her desk to grab a snack. She drags a pretzel stick through the open jar of peanut butter and shoves it in her mouth, looking over her shoulder at Lance and raising an eyebrow in question.

He shakes his head, nodding toward the bag of gummy worms instead. “Give me one of the sour crawlers.”

Pidge rummages for a blue and orange one—Lance’s favorite.

“Catch,” she says, tossing it. Lance tilts his chin up but misses, patting the sheets until he finally finds it and pops it in his mouth.  

“Hit me again.”

This next one he catches right between his teeth, grinning at her smugly before throwing his head back and gobbling it up like some sort of bird. Pidge watches his Adam’s apple bob with the motion, something curling low in her gut.

Her attention doesn’t go unnoticed.  Raising an eyebrow, Lance smirks, moving to the edge of her bed.  Feet planted on the carpet, he pats his knee.

“C’mere.”

“What are you trying to do?” Pidge asks suspiciously, but she goes anyways.

“Nothing.” Feigning innocence, Lance hooks her by the belt loops, pulling her closer into the cradle of his hips.  His legs bracket her on either side, and she laces her fingers behind his neck, waiting.  It’s an old game between them, this process of making him come to her; Lance tilts his head back, smiling, and Pidge rolls her eyes, bending a little to meet him— 

—only for him to snake an arm around her waist and tip her sideways onto the bed.

“Lance!” yelps Pidge, her bedsprings squeaking under their weight as they fall onto the mattress.  She means to say more—something about how he’s a dirty _sneak,_ but that gets swallowed by laughter when he starts tickling her, going straight for her neck.

“I—hate—you,” she gasps, squirming as she tries to bat his hands away.  Eventually, she manages to get a leg around his middle and rolls them over, though Pidge suspects it only happens so easily because Lance is happy to yield.  She ends up sitting on his waist, his chest rising and falling gently under her hands.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless.  The crinkle of his dark blue eyes steals some air from Pidge’s lungs.  For a moment, the rest of the world seems to fall away; nothing matters but Lance’s brown hair mussed against the polka-dotted sheets she’s had since she was eleven, her boyfriend grinning at her like _he’s_ the one who has her pinned.

“Hey,” she parrots back, pushing her fingers through his hair.  Lance props himself up on an elbow, bracing a hand against the small of her back, and she’s reminded of all the times she’s seen him palm a basketball, the warmth and largeness of it felt keenly through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“Hey,” he says again, closer this time. Barely more than a whisper. Their noses brush. Her breath smells like peanut butter, probably, and Lance has sugar at the corner of his mouth from the earlier gummy worm debacle; and it’s funny, Pidge muses, how sometimes you can forget about wanting something until it’s dangled right in front of you.

The first slide of their lips is soft, slow.  A gentle re-acquaintance, like remembering how to ride a bike.  And then Lance tilts his head, a half-sound caught in the back of his throat, and Pidge’s heart thumps hard against her ribcage, fingers twisting the cloth of his tee.  Distantly, there’s the thought that her mother could walk in on them at any minute, but there’s nothing to hide, here.  Just the unhurried tenderness of coming home.

They end up lying on their sides later, curled toward each other like a set of parentheses.  Lance’s legs tangled with hers, one arm a pillow for her head, the other draped loosely over her waist. Pidge traces a circle on the sleeve of his shirt.  She hates to break the comfortable silence between them but knows she has to.

“My family’s moving to Arizona.”

“I know.”

“What?” Pidge shifts, looking up at him in shock.

“Your mom told me,” Lance explains.  His hand lifts from her side, a thumb pressing gently against the furrow between her eyebrows, smoothing it out.  “You know it’s not going to change anything between us, right?”

“I’m not worried about us,” she says.  It’s a truth she hadn’t thought about until now, though it feels good to vocalize it.  “It’s the others.  Keith, Shiro, Hunk, Allura—everyone’s going to come back _here_ on breaks, and I’ll be a whole state away and I just hate thinking about—about not seeing them, and missing out—”

“Hey, come on, that’s easy,” soothes Lance.  “If the gang wants to get together, then you can stay at my house.  God knows we have enough open rooms.  And if transportation’s an issue then I’ll drive the seven hours to Phoenix and abduct you myself.  Though Hunk’s going to want to tag along by default.”

It’s a small thing.  Coming from the same boy who made a half-court shot for her heart (and also, admittedly, the championship game), it’s not even the most romantic overture between them.  But Pidge is suddenly overwhelmed by her feelings. She’s newly seventeen, lying on a cramped twin bed, and in her chest is a wave that’s been building and building and crashes now, finally, through her teeth.

“I love you,” she says. 

To Lance’s collarbone.

For a brief, awful moment, she thinks Lance might not have heard.  But then a choked noise sounds from somewhere above her head; mustering her courage, Pidge looks up.

And finds her boyfriend of a year  _covering his eyes._ A dark flush peeps from under the hand Lance has used to shield the upper half of his face.  Pidge reaches for his wrist, pulling his arm away.

“Why are you _blushing?_ ” she demands, feeling her own face heat up—knowing for a fact that the red is significantly more obvious against her pale, freckled skin.

“You’ve gotta give me some warning before you—before you _say_ stuff like that, Pidge!” Lance protests, ears burning.  “I need to—to _prepare_ myself, or something.”

“P-prepare yourself?” Pidge splutters.  “But…I thought…you said it to _me_ a long time ago.”  Her mind flashes back to their Skype call.  “I wasn’t just…hallucinating that, right?”

“Of course not!” Lance hurries to reassure.  “I just—”  He breaks off, starts again.  “To be honest, I didn’t mean to let it slip like that. Right after we hung up that night I realized what I’d said and I freaked out because I didn’t want to freak _you_ out. Like maybe you’d think it was too soon, or something. And then I just never brought it up again because I was worried you’d be uncomfortable, which was dumb, because we probably should have talked about it—”

“Lance.” Pidge puts a finger against his lips.  “It’s okay. I mean, I did panic, a little. But I’m still glad you told me.” 

Lance looks at her, affection softening his features.  It’s serious between them for all of five seconds—up until he licks her finger.

_“Lance!”_

“Sorry,” he grins, completely unapologetic, and then he’s pulling her closer, adopting a fake-official voice as he says: “Katherine Minerva Holt, I love you.”

At this point, Pidge is pretty sure she’s red all the way down to her toes.  She buries her face in Lance’s chest, grouching: “You’re an idiot.”

“Clearly not, because I was smart enough to trick you into falling in love with me,” Lance fires back, and there’s not really anything Pidge can say to dispute it, so she lets him have the last word.  A small victory. 

She did beat him at Super Mario, after all.          

 

*

 

Lance goes back after the weekend.  The rest of April seems to leave with him; they’re well into May when Principal Iverson pulls Pidge into his office.

“Katherine,” says Iverson.  Always the insistence on formality, even though they should be beyond that, what with the amount of times she’s come to him to appeal for more robotics team funding.

“Hi, Principal Iverson.”

“I have news.”  A pause, for dramatic effect.  “You’re valedictorian.”

The dread kicks in.  “Oh.”

“You’ll be expected to make a speech, of course.”

“Oh.”  Oh _no._

“Have it to me a week before graduation so that I can approve it.”

“Yes, sir.”

For the first time in their four years together, Iverson smiles.

“Congratulations, Katherine.”

 

*

 

“Pidge, what’s up?”

“I need your help.”

On the other end, Keith pauses.  “Like…Lance help, or school help, or…?”

“I have to write a speech for graduation,” Pidge explains.

She can almost hear Keith frowning over the phone.  “No offense, but why are you calling _me?_   That’s more like Shiro. Or Allura.”

“That’s what I thought, at first.  But Shiro and Allura were both _into_ that stuff while they were in high school.  I want advice from someone who didn’t like public speaking but had to do it anyway, so I figured you were my best bet. I mean, you hated it at first but you got pretty good at those motivational speeches by the end of last season.”

“Please don’t remind me,” groans Keith.

“So, what’s the secret?”  She taps her pen against the notepad in front of her.

“Secret…” Keith thinks it over.  “I don’t know, don’t overthink it, maybe?  Honestly, beginning is the hardest part.  But once you get started with it, you just kind of go—ugh, this is terrible, I don’t know how to do this shit, Pidge.”

“No, wait, that wasn’t bad,” says Pidge, an idea springing to life.  She scrawls out a note to herself across the top of the page.  “I think I know what I’m going to say.”

 

*

_Katie Holt – Multivariable Calc Notes_

**gradient:** the collection of partial derivatives of a function.  Points in the direction of steepest ascent.

 

*

 

“And now, a speech from our valedictorian: Katherine Holt!” 

Pidge takes the podium, unfolding the printed sheet of paper in her hands.  The auditorium falls silent, though the rustle of her fellow classmates in the seats onstage behind her touches her ears.  At least five bobby pins hold her graduation cap in place, and still it dips slightly when she bends her head, forcing her to reach up to fix it.  Somewhere in the shadows, the seats are filled with people she loves, and the thought gives her strength, lets her find the first words on the page.

“In my time at the Academy, I’ve procrastinated on a lot of things.  Statistics homework.  Getting my driver’s license.  This speech.” 

The audience chuckles.

“And, while I accept full responsibility for my late grades, I also realize that part of what held me back sometimes was fear.  A fear of not being perfect or ready enough.

“College is going to be a fun time.  It’s also going to be challenging and stressful.  There’s this pressure to figure out your life as soon as possible.  Declare a major.  Get a job.  Get ready for the real world.  Don’t make any mistakes.

“And while those are all valuable things to keep in mind, I also want to remind you of another idea.  It’s something my dad told me, not too long ago: ‘If you get too worried about what could go wrong, you might miss the chance to do something great.’  And to me, what that means is: don’t stress yourself out unnecessarily about the future.

“It’s kind of like the first time you get behind the wheel.  There are all these buttons and indicators, and the more you think about them, the more overwhelming it can get.  But sometimes, all you need to do is just stick the key in the ignition, and build up to the rest. 

“We might not know exactly where we’re headed yet, but we know we’ll get there.  Like one of my friends says, beginning is the hardest part.  But once you get going, you can go anywhere.

“So, Class of 2018, here’s my message to you: All you have to do is start.  We’ll figure the rest out as it comes.”

In the rearview mirror, high school is already beginning to fade.  Food tossed at each other across stone tables.  Long afternoons spent hunched over laptops, watching their robot glitch, finding the bug, running tests again.  Bleachers packed full of people stomping their feet, numbers painted in black on their cheeks.  Up ahead, the future looms, bright and blinding and unknown.  But Pidge is no longer afraid.

“Go,” she says, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.  “Be great.”

**Author's Note:**

> come cry about things with me over on [tumblr!](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  **1/26/18 UPDATE:** now with lovely art from [@poopue](http://poopue.tumblr.com), check it out [here!!!](http://poopue.tumblr.com/post/170156937174/commission-for-amillionsmiles-a-scene-from-her)


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